


Intelligent Conversation Wanted

by AuroraNova



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Garak and Bashir's Literary Lunch Club, Gen, M/M, Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22994794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraNova/pseuds/AuroraNova
Summary: Garak learns that Doctor Bashir is more than just a pretty face.Or, Garak and Bashir's Literary Lunch Club: an origin story.
Relationships: Julian Bashir & Elim Garak, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak (one-sided)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 237





	Intelligent Conversation Wanted

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly canon-compliant. Andrew Robinson canon-compliant, if you will. ;)

Garak’s interactions with Doctor Bashir thus far had not led to his desired outcome, which was mutually enjoyable sex.

Oh, the doctor had played his part in that business with Tahna Los and the Duras sisters, thus establishing Garak as a man of potential use to Commander Sisko and, not incidentally, keeping the wormhole open. The latter point was Garak’s best chance of making a decent living on this station now, and he had to remain on the station if he had any hope of ever returning to Cardassia. He therefore had a vested interest in the wormhole. Still, any Starfleet officer would’ve done for the task. Lieutenant Dax, for instance, probably would’ve known precisely what Garak intended from the outset, and perhaps arrived on time.

Garak was not interested in sex with Dax, which put him in a decided minority as far as the station’s population was concerned. No, Bashir was far more alluring – and, it seemed, unfortunately disinclined to join Garak in bed. 

On the other hand, not many people on the station were willing to offer a Cardassian even a façade of polite civility, and Bashir was entertaining enough, in his own way. Therefore, bored and craving conversation, Garak made his way to Bashir’s table at the Replimat and waited to be noticed. It took an absurdly long time. So long, in fact, that he thought surely the doctor had realized there was a man standing in front of him and was playing a little game to see who would acknowledge the other first. He had no hope of winning against Garak, but there were worse ways to pass the time.

This theory proved incorrect when Bashir glanced up and almost spilled his drink in surprise. “Garak! I didn’t see you there.”

What an appalling lack of situational awareness. Did Starfleet not teach even the most basic observational skills?

“Your reading must be very engrossing,” replied Garak diplomatically. “May I sit?”

“Yes, of course.” Bashir slid his empty plate from the middle of the table to his side, even though Garak only had a mug of broth and thus required very little space. As before, the doctor was clearly nervous and all attempts to hide it were abysmal failures. “So, how’s business?”

“I have no complaints,” Garak said, which was true insofar as he had none he wished to share. “Might I ask what captured your attention so thoroughly?” He took a long, deliberate glance at Bashir’s reader. Padds, the Starfleet personnel called these devices. A strange name, but then, Standard was a strange language.

“A modern retelling of the _Odyssey_. One of the great works of ancient Earth literature.”

How stereotypically human to embrace newness even to the point of rewriting classic literature. Still, this was a pleasant surprise. Garak had expected a dull medical paper, as he’d quickly ascertained from various sources that Bashir enjoyed all things related to his profession, rather to the detriment of his social life. Literature, on the other hand, Garak found much more fertile ground for discourse.

“The original epic poem is three thousand years old,” said Bashir. “It tells the story of a man’s journey to return home after a war, though I’m afraid that summary really doesn’t do it justice.”

The doctor still looked anxious. He fidgeted with his fork as though he expected weapons to be drawn at any minute, leading Garak to think the rumors of his own supposed spying may have grown out of control. As though he would bother pressing Bashir for classified information. Much easier just to grant himself access to the station’s computers, which were after all Cardassian hardware and not entirely compatible with standard Federation information security measures (at least not yet; he believed it was a high priority for Sisko). There was very little to gain from pressing the doctor on the professional front.

The personal front was another matter. If Garak could not have this attractive man in his bed, and sadly that did appear to be the case, he might at least enjoy a much higher standard of conversation than he had heretofore managed to find. If Bashir enjoyed literature, all Garak had to do was convince him that meeting to discuss books from their respective cultures was a worthwhile endeavor. Considering Starfleet’s well-known desire to learn about other civilizations, it surely couldn’t be that difficult to intrigue the doctor.

“Cardassian literature has many tales on that theme.” Garak sipped his broth. It never did to rush into persuasion.

“I imagine the basic plot is universal,” said Bashir.

Garak very much wanted to point out that nothing about cultural matters was universal, and moreover, any stance which could be disproven by the existence of a single counterexample was unwise. He kept these thoughts to himself. If Bashir happened to be aware of Cardassian courtship and seduction – unlikely, but not impossible – he might be scared off, and then Garak would lose his most promising opportunity for conversation. No, debate would have to wait until he’d definitively established it was permissible.

“Perhaps,” he said instead. “And how does your modern retelling compare to the original?”

“I wouldn’t know, exactly. I can’t read Greek, so I’ve only read a translation.”

“A common problem.” Garak himself had never gotten around to learning Hebitian, mainly because doing so was discouraged and thus he would have to hide the endeavor from Tain, which had seemed more trouble than it was worth.

He supposed he could learn to read Hebitian now.

Regardless, he hadn’t expected such an insightful remark from Bashir. According to the Order’s extensive cultural dossier, humans were prone to over-reliance on translation and under-appreciation for the myriad ways that nuances could only be grasped with true linguistic comprehension. Either the Order had been misinformed or, and more likely, Doctor Bashir was an outlier among humans. How delightful. Garak really had to secure future discussions with this man. 

“Going from the translation, though, I honestly prefer this to the original,” said Bashir, warming to his subject. “Though that’s probably a reflection of my preference for prose over poetry more than anything else.”

“I agree with your preference.” That was even true, if not for reasons Garak would admit. Cardassian poetry, as he saw it, was suffocated by the requisite structure. It was not the kind of opinion one shared with a casual acquaintance, seeing how structure kept order. Garak did not disagree on the larger importance of order in the least, of course. He simply questioned the necessity of limiting syllables so strictly as a means of keeping chaos at bay, and had never received a satisfactory explanation as to the linear progression which lead from permitting poets to add an extra three lines directly to complete breakdown of the social order.

Then again, a few harmless questions had led to his own exile. Garak conceded to himself that he might need to reconsider his logic. 

Bashir smiled, as though this small commonality on the merits of prose versus poetry meant a great deal. “Really? Poetry has been in vogue for a while now.”

“Not on Cardassia.” The art form had never truly recovered from Iloja’s exile, though Garak did not care to delve into that matter, either. Exile was not a subject he would enjoy discussing.

“I don’t know the first thing about Cardassian literature,” said Bashir, far more apologetically than the situation warranted.

Garak could not have asked for a better opportunity. “If you’d like, I can provide you with some excellent books. If you’re interested in a long journey home, for example, you can’t go wrong with _Across the Makrassa Sea_.”

In Garak’s personal opinion, that was the second-best Cardassian novel about a difficult and lengthy return home. As his favorite book on the subject dealt with a gul trying to get his ship back to Cardassia without warp drive during the war with the Federation, he thought it best not to suggest that particular work to Bashir. The primary antagonist was a Vulcan, not human, but still, giving the doctor a book where his state was the enemy could hardly be expected to endear him to ongoing cultural exchange.

Bashir nodded with enthusiasm which might have seemed fake, if Garak hadn’t observed him enough to know better. “I’d like that, thank you. I’m curious to see how your culture portrays the theme. Is it a very old book?”

“Not compared to your ancient, what was it, Greek poem?” Three thousand years old did not technically qualify as ancient on Cardassia. The cutoff remained three thousand and six hundred years, but such definitions varied by culture. Garak resolved to look up whether or not humans had such a strict delineation at his convenience (which, because he lacked tasks at the moment, would be shortly after he returned to his shop).

“Yes, Greek, but that’s the original,” said Bashir. “The book I’m reading now came out six months ago.”

“ _Across the Makrassa Sea_ is considerably older. Seven hundred and thirty-one years, to be precise.” Cardassian years, anyway. It would work out to be slightly more recent if measured by Earth standards, but Garak would let Bashir figure that out for himself.

“Humans were still travelling by sea then, as well.”

Garak could have explained that the crossing was in fact done by air balloons. He decided to let that be a surprise.

“Would you be interested in reading _The Odyssey_?” asked Bashir. “I’d be fascinated to know what you think of it.”

Garak smiled. “I could be persuaded.” Very easily, in fact, seeing as how it was the only social activity in his foreseeable future.

“Well, the Odyssey is a cornerstone for a large part of Earth’s literary traditions. It was noteworthy at the time for giving agency to women and slaves, not to mention it has a noble hero fighting against the odds.”

So Bashir liked noble heroes and unlikely odds. Noted. “Does he by chance work tirelessly for the good of his state?”

“Odysseus was a king. He _was_ his state.”

“I suppose that would make effort for the state quite easy.” Too simple, really. Where was the sacrifice for the greater good?

“I’m not sure you can say he had it easy,” countered Bashir. “He had a god for an enemy.”

“That would complicate matters.”

Just when Garak was about to broach a dialogue on what exactly ancient human gods were like – this was another area where cultures had a great variety of ideas – Bashir’s combadge beeped. He tapped it regretfully. “That’s my alarm. I’ve got to get back to the infirmary.”

How unfortunate. “Would you care to stop by my shop tomorrow on your way to lunch, Doctor? We could exchange books.”

“I’ll be there,” said Bashir.

As the doctor left, Garak finished off his broth in a much better mood than he’d started it. For the first time since the Cardassian withdrawal – or even since he arrived on this cursed station, if he were to be truly honest with himself – he had something to which he could look forward. A small thing, to be sure, but intelligent conversation was not to be dismissed lightly.

Doctor Bashir might just prove to be the most interesting person on Deep Space Nine


End file.
